there is no grace. Each flake is a poisoned needle
jabbing in my skin.
Every sting of winter is a piece of
her blue eyes,
his blue lips barely parted in a box.
I imagine his last breath and
wonder if it felt like Winter,
if it felt like the cold prick of
hell jabbed into his veins.
Winter has chained me to the past.
What is lost weighs more than everything
Winter has ever given. I imagine her singing,
and if she sounds like Summer.
I know that I am here now, and I can never go back,
but still, I wonder,
when it snows in the desert.